


storm brewing

by fishycorvid



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Amy as a Sergeant, Angst, Dark, F/M, Post-Wedding, semi-happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 08:17:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14828699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishycorvid/pseuds/fishycorvid
Summary: A cop goes missing. A sergeant stays behind to find him. A detective waits alone in his apartment for his wife to come home.(or, a thunderstorm lingers at the edge of the ninety-ninth precinct)





	storm brewing

**Author's Note:**

> anyways this is set a little after the wedding, as Amy is settling into her job. enjoy!

Days could be stretching into weeks, into years. She wouldn’t know.

Outside, the air is thick. Even inside the precinct, she can feel it seeping under the doors, through the windows, settling on her skin, clouding into her lungs and throat. Humid. Warm, but not yet summer-hot. Clouds wheel above them in the sky, around and around, day and night, night and day. But Amy Santiago pays no mind to them.

Things like this were easier, she thinks, back when she was on the fourth floor rather than the third. Then, she had the night shift sweeping in and out, Captain Holt telling her to go home, Rosa giving her rare but bracing smiles, Boyle bringing her food, Terry providing his earnest and genuine kind of support, even Scully and Hitchcock being disgusting in the background. And Jake. Teasing and cajoling her, offering to help in any way he can, giving her coffee, grinning at her from over his computer. Later, soft kisses pressed into her hairline on the way past, his hand grasping hers, his arms wrapped around her.

Of course, he’s come to visit her over the last few days. But she can’t let him stay long– _I’m busy,_ Amy tells him apologetically, and it’s true, but her head is turned down as if he won’t be able to see her eyes red from tears, face pale and wan, hands shaking– and she nags him until he goes away, eyes trained on her even as he gets into the elevator. He’s brought food, too, and she loves him for it, but she hasn’t touched almost any of it. _Take it,_ she tells any beat cops passing by. _You need to eat more than I do._ They look at her, too, worried, wide eyes.

Gary Jennings has not been seen for six days.

And sure, Amy would like to think he’s sick, but that would require ignoring the fact that Jennings would have called in at least three times, just to make sure everything was okay.

More likely, but much more unacceptably: kidnapped or killed, maybe, by someone less than friendly towards people in their line of work.

(That cannot happen. Amy Santiago _refuses_ to lose any of her officers.)

Incidentally, just as Jennings has not been seen for six days, she has not been home for six days, slaving away, monitoring the city security cams, tracking where he might have been, reviewing suspect after suspect.

Amy lets her head fall back against her desk, and squeezes shut painfully dry eyes. Her hair is a mess, and she knows it, but hell if she can do anything about it, hell if she can do anything at all.

“Sergeant Santiago?” says a voice, low and so agonizingly familiar that she almost doesn’t move.

If it’s just her imagination and she responds anyway, then, well… Amy’s nearly certain all of her beat cops have already damn near lost their respect for her or her leadership. Management skills too weak, connections to the fourth floor too strong, personality too high strung and nervous. It’s a idea that aches in her chest. She loves them, but is afraid they do not love her.

Nevertheless: “Captain Holt?”

A large, strong hand drops down on Amy’s shoulder, and she jolts up, turning her head semi-robotically to look. “Yes, Santiago.” His voice is uncharacteristically sympathetic and soft.

She tries for a weak approximation of humor. “You’re going to tell me I need to go home, I assume.”

Holt lets out a quiet, rough chuckle. “You assume correctly, sergeant. Clearly, six days without sleep have not affected your detective skills.” She allows herself to laugh, then, too, wry and raw. “Santiago. Go home.”

“Captain, I–” she begins to protest, but he cuts her off with a single look.

“Go. Home. This a direct order from a superior officer. You are doing no good for either you or Officer Jennings.”

He holds her gaze for a moment, much longer than he would normally tolerate even such tiny subordination. After far too long, Amy sighs brokenly and stares at her hands, twisted together on her lap. Bleakly, she registers that her nails are ragged, chewed down to the edge.

For the first time in six days, she is on the edge of tears. “Okay. I will. Just a few more hours–”

“Santiago.”

At that, she staggers to her feet and almost falls over. “I– I’m going home, Holt. Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”

His eyes are dark and inscrutable, but even Amy can see the pity in the strict, terse lines of his lips. “I’ll call you a cab.”

“S’okay, Captain–”

“Amy,” Holt says softly, and she flinches. “Stay here a moment. Someone will be here soon to take you home.”

(After all of that, it turns out to be Gina, driving her home at 12:30 at night. Perhaps it’s a testament to her clearly exhausted, broken state that even _Gina Linetti herself_ does not tease her, just quietly hums to herself as she drives Amy back to her and Jake’s shared apartments.

“Goodnight, Amy,” the other woman tells her, even helping her out of the car. Amy does not respond, and Gina grimaces before continuing. “You’ll find him, ‘cause you’re a nerd, and you actually give a shit about the lives of other people.”

“Thanks,” Amy mumbles against Gina’s side, and starts the slow climb up the stairs.)

Her head is spinning, eyes aching. It’s a long journey that burns at her legs and arms; it takes all her strength not to collapse upon entering the apartment. It smells familiar: like lavender, like linen, like Jake, like her. Again, tears are stinging at her eyes, and she forces them closed for a moment, teeth gritted.

A quiet voice in the darkness: “Who’s there?” The door closes behind her with a click that feels resounding in the semi-silence of their usually noisy and bright apartment.

“It’s me,” she says, voice cracking and rough from disuse.

“Ames?” The reply is so quiet and far-away that she almost things she’s imagining it.

“Jake?” Amy responds, slowly moving towards their bedroom. When she pushes open the door, creaking on its hinges _(note to self,_ Amy thinks wearily, _buy some WD-40)_ , the harsh glow of the city streaming in through the window stings at her tired eyes. There’s a shadowy figure curled on her side of the bed, pillow clutched to his chest, nose buried in its fabric. As she approaches, the shape uncurled, and in the light of the streetlights streaking through their blinds, she can see tear-shiny hazel eyes blinking up at her.

“Hey,” she murmurs, and this is normally when she’d reach out to touch his cheek, but her hands are statue-still and she doesn’t think she can move them anymore. “What are you doing still awake?”

Jake laughs rawly, and she can see his hands fisting into the pillow, knuckles white. “I can’t sleep without you here.”

“I’m sorry,” Amy whispers, and sits down slowly on their mattress, muscles screaming from their weariness. “I can’t–” And then the tears are there, hot and rushing behind her eyes, and she bites her lip hard enough to puncture skin in an attempt to hold back a choking, wrenching sob. “God, Jake, I–”

Through the haze of her vision, she can see tears on his cheeks, too. “Hey, come here,” he whispers brokenly, only inches from her face, and gathers her into his arms. The chill of his wedding ring presses into her back.

As Amy curls further into him, strong arms tight around her, she promises herself that she’ll talk to him about it. The thick, humid air and the heavy press of sleep weigh down on the both of them. The night is warm. Somewhere, in the distance, a thunderstorm lingers.

After six days, Amy Santiago’s eyes slip shut, just as her brow bone comes to rest against Jake Peralta’s shoulder, hands clasped together as if that will be enough to hold themselves together.

(They don’t talk about it.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading thru this! please drop a kudos or a comment if you feel like it :)


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